‘You’re not to worry about a thing, Rachaela,’ she must have found the name out from a nurse. ‘I’ve seen to it all. Everything. We can sort the money side out later, but I don’t want you to worry about that either. It really doesn’t matter. I have more than enough, my old love saw to it I was comfortable. And I know, well—let’s not talk about it now. The baby clothes are pink, of course. That’s one good thing about not getting anything until we knew.’ Emma hesitated. ‘They’ll be along soon, won’t they.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t wait to see her again. Oh, Rachaela, don’t you feel clever? A gorgeous little girl.’

‘I don’t feel anything.’

‘Well that can happen. Have you told them how you feel?’

‘It isn’t any of their business.’

‘But Rachaela, it is. They can help you to feel better.’

‘I feel all right.’

‘But you said—’

‘Emma, I told you. I didn’t want this—baby.’

‘But she’s here now. And she’s yours.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you wishing,’ said Emma cautiously, ‘that he—’

‘No. He wouldn’t be any more interested than I am.’

Emma looked away. After a moment she said, ‘Have you been luckier in feeding her.’

‘Luckier? Do you mean can I breast-feed her yet? No I can’t. Apparently I haven’t got much milk.’ Rachaela fought down her disgust. ‘I find it repulsive. It’s bad enough with the bottle.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Emma.

‘Emma, you’ve been more than kind, but you don’t understand.’

‘No. I’m sorry about that too.’

‘It’s all right. I can’t do anything about it. I accept that I can’t.’

All those months swelling up, the pain and weight, and pretending it did not exist. But it had arrived and was actual. The pain had taken on a form, which cried, and dribbled from every orifice. A white hospitalized package smelling of faeces, urine and sick. Something she was expected to love. Aliens might have placed it in her, it might have burst out of her body rending her—it had done so. It had enslaved and damaged her. Now it was to rule her life. Why should she love it, this demon?

The nurses were coming with their Father Christmas sacks of snivelling and screaming babies.

‘Here you are, Emma. Your moment.’

And Emma’s unhappy face had freshened. She was not however indiscriminate. She rose and took Rachaela’s child from the nurse with a gliding ‘May I?’, a sort of sleight of hand. Emma held the baby exactly as it should be held.

‘Hallo, precious. Hallo, my sweet.’

Emma loved it. But dutifully she passed the bundle down into Rachaela’s cold white arms.

Rachaela peered into the gnomic face.

It had lived in her, used her, but it was not hers. It was theirs. The Scarabae.

She could even see it in this thing, the pallor of it, the fine dust of jet black fur. The eyes were dark already, not yet focused, but questing. No teeth yet. Not yet.